


Take the Long Way Home

by MinteyArchive (Mintey)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angel Bela Talbot, Angel Dean Winchester, Angel Sam Winchester, Apocalypse, Episode: s05e04 The End, Gen, Human Castiel, Hunter Castiel, Pre-Relationship, Work In Progress, angel!Sam, angel!dean, reverse verse, reverse!verse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-12
Updated: 2013-08-25
Packaged: 2017-12-23 07:17:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/923476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mintey/pseuds/MinteyArchive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After 40 years in Hell, Castiel Novak once again finds himself alive and well - but with one question: Why?  </p><p>Castiel's search for answers finds him caught in the crossfire of angels and demons, discovering answers that he ultimately didn't want to know, and learning new things about even his best of friends, all while trying to stop the apocalypse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been polishing this one up for a while, and I'm proud to finally present to you Angel!Dean and Hunter!Castiel in a reverse-verse where the apocalypse takes a whole new twist - to tell you anything else would be spoilers. So, without further ado, I present to you: Take the Long Way Home.
> 
> (This is **_not_** a re-write of Season 4. The plot takes an entirely different road after Chapter One/Two).
> 
>  
> 
> **Story on hold until further notice! Sorry for the inconvenience, but I had to drop this story due to school, and I've since forgotten a lot of the plot bunnies that were floating around, so until I re-outline and find the time to continue, this won't be updated!**

Dean Smith was not a religious man.  

He didn’t believe in God, or any of those other religions that he couldn’t be bothered to place a name to.  He didn’t go to church on Sundays and didn’t celebrate religious holidays (only the Hallmark kind).  He didn’t care if swearing too much was a sin, except that he hardly swore anyway.

So, when his company’s stocks took a swan dive - a failure that could be traced to his poor salesmanship over the past few months - he decided to take one too.

There was no last prayer to God, no family to leave a note to, nothing to hold Dean Smith back from taking his final step off the roof of his ten-story office building.  There was no last thoughts as he lay dying on the pavement.  There was no one to care. 

He thought he was already dead when he saw the dazzling white light and heard a voice saying, “He’s dead, Jim.”

"God?" he managed to ask.  The effort required to croak that one word was all that it took to convince Dean Smith that he was not, in fact, dead. 

"No, but you’ll meet him soon."

Correction - not dead, yet.  He must be hallucinating.  The voice and the light were just head trauma from the fall.

"You’re not imagining this, even though you did hit your head pretty hard," said the voice again.  He felt the light warm the edges of his body.  "I’m Dean."

Wait… what?  No, he was Dean.  Not the voice.

"We’re both Dean," it clarified.  "I’m an angel, and you’re dying."

"You’ve come to take me?" asked Dean Smith.  He shut his eyes, welcoming the black that was fogging his mind.  He let out a small grunt when the blazing brightness cleared the mist, forcing him to consciousness once again.

"Nah, just your body.  It was a nice one too, until you fucked it up with that stunt of yours.  But hey, I've got angel mojo. I can fix that."

Dean Smith cringed at the words of this self-proclaimed angel.  No, he had to be dreaming.  He let his eyes flutter shut, willing death to take him and for this crazy made-up ordeal to be over.

"Wow, you are one stubborn son of a bitch."  The white light grew more prominent, so that even with his eyelids closed, Dean Smith saw a red-orange glow.  "You’re definitely not hallucinating, and you’re definitely almost dead.  Which is why, if you don’t mind, we need to speed this up a bit. I need to borrow your body."

"My body?" asked Dean Smith.  "What would you want that for?"

"Drugs, sex, and alcohol."

Dean Smith tried to let out a laugh, but it came out as a wheeze.  The white light pulsed again, and if Dean had to put a human emotion to it, he would say the light was almost angry.

"I was serious," said the light.

"Oh."

"So… body?"

Dean Smith’s final thought was that he was hallucinating, he had to be. What angel would want to take his healthy body and ruin it with such vile activities?  He was definitely imagining the whole encounter. So that would explain why his final word was, “Yes.”

* * *

He had lied.

For thirty years, Alastair had given Castiel an option.  For thirty years, Alastair had offered Castiel a break.  For thirty years, Alastair had asked Castiel to cut up souls.  And for thirty years, Castiel had said no, saying that he could handle whatever pain was on his plate for the day.

The day he gave in had not been special in any way.  Alastair had not taken the form of Lilith or Ruby, or even Gabriel, Anna, Sam, or Bobby.  He had been himself, simply tearing at Castiel’s sensitive flesh with an ordinary knife, and Castiel had been gritting his teeth, when his reserve snapped.

“Stop!” he had screamed.  Alastair hadn’t listened at first, continuing to make incisions into Castiel’s abdomen.  “I’ll do it, just get me off of here!”

Alastair had reached up to drag a bloody fingernail along Castiel’s cheek, his smirk transforming into an ugly grin that could only mean more trouble.  “See, that wasn’t so hard, now was it? No more pain, Castiel.” 

Castiel had watched as the demon removed the hooks from his shoulder and spleen.  The rusty metal had burned as it scraped against his organs and muscles, and once it was out, the holes had stung worse than acid on an open wound.  He had flinched upon seeing the permanent scars from Lilith’s hellhound that ran from his chest down to his hips.  Whenever Alastair had healed him at the end of the day, clearing the maze of injuries from his lean body, the new white skin had remained raised in the everlasting form of massive paws, reminding Castiel why he was in Hell in the first place.

Alastair had promised Castiel freedom from pain. 

He had lied.

As Castiel soon discovered, Alastair did not make fair deals.  The demon would force Castiel to rip apart the most pure of souls, their light often so blinding and their screams so innocent that Castiel could not finish the job, at which point Alastair would either snap Castiel’s fingers one by one and finish the job himself, or possess Castiel’s soul, forcing the human to do his bidding. To top it off, at the end of the day, the hooks would dig back into his skin, creating fresh piercings, with each new day’s worse than the last.

For ten years, Alastair tortured both his body and soul.  For ten years, Castiel felt his self-control slipping.  For ten years, Castiel gritted his teeth, feeling his humanity practically slip out of his grasp.

And then a new day had dawned, if it was even right to consider the passing of time in Hell as “days.”  Something new had happened.

The day it began had been another ordinary day.  Castiel had been woken with jarring pain.  He had seen Alastair’s sneering face.  And Castiel had begun to torture, finding this day easier than the last, the way he had been noticing for the past ten years.  It had dragged on and on, the bloodshed and glow of souls lost to Castiel’s now-apathetic demeanor.  Then, at last, the day had been over, and Castiel had been ruthlessly thrown back on the rack.  And he had waited in the darkness for the next endless bout of torture.  Except it hadn’t come.

Castiel had cautiously opened one eye, then the other, after sensing the sudden…  _wrongness_.  He had been submerged in complete darkness, the kind that only comes on the cloudiest of nights in the thick of a forest, when everything had gone white.  At first Castiel thought he had been hallucinating.  But then another flash of light had come, farther away.  Then came the screams, different from anything he had heard from both human soul and evil creature alike.  It had seemed as if they were crying out for help, yet there had been something in the screams that Castiel had not heard in over forty years: hope.

Flash.

Scream.

Rattling chains.

Flash.

Darkness.

Castiel awoke with a start. He gasped for air, his throat scratchy and constricted. His muscles screamed in protest and his head throbbed.  A tie. He was wearing a tie.  Frantically, he loosened it from his neck, his elbow connecting with something solid.  What kind of game was Alastair playing now?

He ran his hands along the surface, meeting a corner.  It was wood.  His fingertips brushed the splintering… box.  He was in a box.  A small box.  A coffin, he realized, panic beginning to worm its way into his head.

“Help!” he cried, his vocal chords resisting the simple task of speech.  Castiel’s voice came out as a gravely growl.  “Somebody help me!”

Castiel dug into his pockets, trying to see what had been left on his person.  His fingers closed around a matchbox.  He lit one, the small flame illuminating the tiny space - and burning oxygen, he realized.  The flame burned at his nails and Castiel quickly shook it out, careful not to let it catch on the box.  He began to claw at the top of the coffin, pulling at the wood and getting nowhere.

He pulled his button-down shirt over his nose, and in one swift motion, pushed his knees hard against the lid.  It buckled at the force, dirt pouring into the small space, along with termites and… gross, maggots.  Castiel cleared the thoughts from his head telling him that at one point those had probably been eating at his flesh.  Dirt was everywhere, and Castiel clawed his way through it, going what he thought to be up.

Eventually, his hands met air.  Cold, crisp, air.  Probably another part of hell, he thought, expecting to see nothing but darkness and a clan of smirking demons.  When his head popped through the surface, he was surprised to be met with a blinding light.  He shielded his eyes while his pupils adjusted to seeing the sun for the first time in years.

The rest of his body followed suit, his unused limbs screaming in resistance by the time he was laid flat on solid ground. Castiel rolled over on the grass, catching his breath.  Slowly, he clamored his way into a standing position, grappling with a nearby structure of wood.  When he was steady on his feet, he took in his surroundings.

A crude white cross was stuck into the ground next to the hole he had crawled out of.  He stood in a clearing, made larger by an enormous circle of fallen trees, all faced outward as if a nuclear bomb had gone off at the center.  Castiel turned a slow full rotation, searching for the middle of the field.  Upon closer inspection, he realized the exact center was the grave.

His mind pieced together the items, but Castiel could not make much sense of the scene.  It appeared to be where Sam had buried him, somewhere outside of Lawrence, Kansas, if their last location was any indication.  Castiel wrapped his trench coat tighter around his body and began walking, trying to put as much space in between the unpleasant location and himself.  He did not want to be around when whatever had cleared an acre of forest returned.

Castiel shivered as he walked, wondering what month it was.  The frigid gale penetrated his bones, reminding him of the eternal winter in Hell. By the time he reached a crossroads ( _ironic_ , he thought to himself), the sun was beginning to set, and he made his way into a small gas station.  Nobody was in, yet he still felt horrible for picking the lock on the register and taking a few bills.

Next to the register sat a stack of newspapers.  Castiel picked one up.  The title read  _Lawrence Daily Press_.  So he was right, he had ended up buried near Lawrence.  His eyes flicked down to the date.  January 24, 2008. Only four months since he had gone to Hell, leaving his older brother Gabriel alone. 

Not that it entirely mattered.  Gabriel probably didn’t even know what had happened to Castiel.  It was safe to say that Gabriel wouldn’t be sending any Christmas cards anytime soon, or vice versa. Hell, Castiel wouldn’t even have known what had happened to Gabriel, if it weren’t for the fact that his good friend Sam kept a log on all the obituaries, frequently looking for hunter cases.  That was when Sam had called him up, asking if Castiel was related to a Gabriel Novak, because (as Sam had put it quite bluntly) he was dead. 

Castiel had been heartbroken upon hearing the news, so much in fact that he had forgotten to hang up the receiver and Sam had remained consoling nothing but air for a good hour and a half.  Granted, Gabriel had ran out on Castiel when he was still a baby, and Castiel grew up with a foster family, the Miltons, but Castiel still loved his older brother and kept the last name Novak in the hopes his brother would one day return.

That had never happened, though, and never would, now that Gabriel was dead. Caught in a blur of emotional decisions, Castiel had eventually hung up the phone on Sam and sped to the nearest crossroads.  In hindsight, maybe that hadn’t been the best of all decisions.  But Gabriel was still his brother, and lack of communication or not, Castiel still loved him. Sam had been beyond livid when he had found out what Castiel did, trying to find every way to get Castiel out of the deal, even going so far as to enlist the help of a demon named Ruby.  The closer they got to Castiel’s expiration date, the more frantic and upset Sam had gotten, often being absent for days at a time, occupied with fruitless attempts to break the deal.  So, mark that down as two people Castiel had carelessly left behind.

“Sam,” Castiel said aloud.  He needed to find Sam; the guy was the next best thing to family for him, since he had long past given up on trying to find Gabriel.  But first, the protesting of his voice reminded him that he had been aching for water.

He reached into the freezer in the back, grabbing a water bottle and thirstily gulping the entire bottle down.  As his head tilted back and his arm raised the plastic against his lips, squeezing for the last drop, Castiel was reminded that the hellhound had sunk its teeth into his shoulder, rendering it useless.  Why was it now functioning, then?  Curious, he turned toward a mirror, unbuttoning his jacket and shirt.  

All of his pale skin was intact, and no discolored reminders remained on the planes of his chest.  Castiel examined his body, searching for any signs of his experience in Hell, but there were none. However, his rear ached when he pivoted his legs to check his back, and Castiel cautiously pulled down the back of his pants, revealing a raised red blemish in the shape of–

A handprint.  On his butt.  This day just kept getting stranger and stranger.

He returned to the freezer, opening a second bottle, when an earsplitting screeching sound pierced through the air.  He hastily grabbed a canister of cooking salt from one of the isles, pouring it generously on the windowsill and bringing one hand to his ear as the sound got louder.  The window began to crack, and Castiel threw himself behind the counter just in time to block the flying shards of glass.

After several minutes, the sound faded, and Castiel picked himself up, surveying the damage.  What the hell was going on?  Demons never announced their arrival, and he had never heard of any creature that made a sound so piercing. Castiel decided it would be best to call Bobby.  He wandered across the street to a payphone box, dropping two quarters in the slot and dialing Bobby’s emergency number.

“Yeah?” came the old man’s voice through earpiece.

“Bobby?” asked Castiel.  “Bobby, something peculiar is happening.”

“Who is this?”

“Castiel.”

The dial tone rung through the speaker, signaling the ended call. Why had Bobby hung up on him?  Castiel paid the machine again, re-dialing the number.

“Bobby, I need your help,” tried Castiel again.

He was cut short by Bobby’s threatening tone. “Listen to me, you call again and I’ll kill you.”

Castiel stared at the phone. What now?  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a beat-up pickup truck in the lot. After checking for any bystanders, he opened the unlocked door and began to intertwine the wires, trying to start it. Castiel hoped he was hotwiring correctly – he wasn’t prone to performing the illegal act on a regular basis, which only increased his discomfort at the tiny explosive sounds the vehicle made. It rumbled to life hesitantly, almost as if it hadn’t been used for as long as Castiel had spent in Hell.  Well, his version of how long he had spent in hell, rather.

Six hours later, the car was on the brink of falling apart as it crawled into the Singer Salvage Yard. At least now it was at home amongst the other broken down cars. Castiel took a deep breath, climbing out of the car, and strode up to the door. He knocked twice and waited.  Bobby opened the door, starting to grumble about “not wanting whatever you’re selling…” He stopped short when he saw Castiel standing there, shivering in his trench coat.

“Hello, Bobby,” said Castiel. Bobby only stared for a moment while his hand closed around a silver knife.  He lunged for Castiel, who in turn countered it by pinning the knife behind Bobby’s back.  Bobby’s elbow smacked Castiel in the face, and he went flying back into the kitchen.  “Bobby, it’s me!” he said, desperately placing a chair between himself and his attacker.

Bobby attacked again.  “My ass,” he said, once again advancing on Castiel.  However, Castiel wrenched the knife from Bobby’s hand.

“If I wasn’t actually me, would I be capable of this?” asked Castiel, drawing back his sleeve to make a cut along his arm. The blood dripped from the slice, but Castiel remained free of any monster-esque reactions.  At first, Castiel believed Bobby would continue has advances, but the man’s shoulders relaxed and his face changed from anger to shock.

“Castiel?” Bobby asked, full of disbelief.  He seized the younger man in a hug. 

Castiel stood with his arms straight at his sides, unsure of what to do.  He had never preferred hugs in general, or any type of touch.  The embrace was particularly startling because after forty years of Hell, he was used to contact, just not the friendly kind.  So, he continued to stand there awkwardly while Bobby held him out at arm length.

“Where’s Sam?” asked Castiel.

“I haven’t heard from him since your… uh, funeral.”

Castiel frowned.  It was unlike Sam to stop contact, especially with Bobby.  “Is he…?”

“He’s fine, as far as I know.  But what about you, Castiel?”  Bobby asked.  “What the hell happened?”

“I was… with Alastair. And there was a light.  The next thing I knew I was in my coffin and struggling to get out. Then I called you.” Castiel thought back to his gravesite and the coffin.  “Speaking of burials, why did you bury me? Why didn’t you give me a traditional hunter’s funeral?”

“Sam was dead set on getting you out, boy,” said Bobby.  He poured himself a drink and took a swig. “By the fact that you’re here, I guess he did something right.”

“Right?” Castiel inquired.  “Bobby, the gravesite was in ruins.  Whatever Sam is up to… It can’t be anything safe.  We need to find him.”

“What makes you think it’s so bad?  You’re living and breathing, ain’t you?”

Castiel huffed out a sigh. “Please don’t laugh, Bobby,” he began, turning around. Pulling his pants down, he showed the handprint to Bobby. “But there was someone…  _something_  there. Something that did not belong.”

“You could’ve just said so, Castiel.  I didn’t need to see...” he trailed off, waving a hand at Castiel’s exposed lower half. “… all that.”

He pulled up his black slacks. “My apologies.” Castiel ran a hand through his hair, causing some leftover dirt to spring free. “If it is not any trouble, I would appreciate your help in locating Sam.”

After the entire night and half the morning spent with a computer and numerous phone calls, Castiel succeeded in tracking Sam to... Lawrence, Kansas.  He should have known that Sam would be sitting in the same town as his gravesite, especially after he had pulled some sort of deal to pull Castiel out of Hell.  At Bobby’s insistence, Castiel slept through most of the drive, but his thoughts were plagued with what kind of trouble Sam might be in. Had he made a demon deal?  It was unlikely; Ruby had told Castiel that there was no hope for him, and yet she kept leading Sam on with false hopes.

What had the power to raise someone from the dead? He found himself thinking again that Ruby probably knew, and being the demon that she was, only wanted to see Castiel suffer in Hell a few months before pulling him back out. That had to be the solution, otherwise why would she have told Sam that there was still hope?

Castiel was shaken awake by Bobby, and the pair made their way into a fancy hotel, the kind that had fountains in the lobby and bellhops standing at the doors.

Castiel weaved his way through the hallways, encountering many drunken women and men along the way, some just returning home after an all-night-and-day party, others just going out for the night.  He hesitated upon finding Sam’s room number.  Tentatively, he knocked on the door.

A short brunette opened the door.  “So where is it?”

Castiel was taken aback.  “Where’s what?”

“The champagne? That apparently takes two men to deliver,” she added, noticing Bobby.  “Shouldn’t you be wearing your uniform?  You can forget about getting a tip from me.”

“I believe we knocked on the wrong door,” said Castiel, already beginning to turn, stopping in his tracks at the sound of a familiar voice.

“What’s taking so long? I thought we were going to-” Sam stopped short, staring at Castiel.  He turned to Bobby, who gave a half shrug.

The silence was deafening, so Castiel spoke up.  “It is nice to see you again, Sam.”

Sam continued to warily eye Castiel, seeming unsurprised yet still startled to see Castiel. He leaped onto Castiel, charging at him with a peculiar silver knife in his hand, one that Castiel would have asked the origin of if he wasn’t preoccupied with not getting shredded to pieces.  The fight was even, between Castiel’s swift movements and Sam’s measured strokes of the knife.  Eventually Bobby’s arms joined the tangle, breaking the two men apart.

“What do you want?” growled Sam.

“I… I wanted to see you.”

“To kill me? Is that it?” Sam pushed harder against Bobby’s restraint.  “You made a big mistake showing up like that and mocking my dead friend!”

“Sam, please, it’s me.”

Bobby gave a curt nod.  “It’s true, I checked.”

Castiel stepped closer to Sam, placing a hand on the taller man’s shoulder. “I am aware that you had something to do with this. You should not have done anything.”

“Something to do with what?”  Sam’s voice sounded tired and forced.

Castiel blinked.  “It wasn’t done by you?”

“No, no. I’m…” Tears threatened to fall from Sam’s eyes. “It’s nice to see you again, Castiel.”

“You too, Sam.”

Sam broke free of Bobby’s now-loosened grasp, this time to embrace Castiel in a bone-crushing hug.  “Castiel, I missed you.”

The moment was interrupted when the brunette girl said, “So are you two… like… together?”

Both men were taken aback by her statement.  “Yes, we have worked together,” Castiel said.

“No, we’re uh… friends,” Sam explained lamely at the same time. Castiel tilted his head, staring at Sam. The two shared a confused glance, broken by the quick shake of Sam’s head. “We’re not together.”

“Suree… if you say so,” said the girl, putting on the remainder of her clothes, which Castiel had failed to notice were missing previously. “Call me?”

“Sure thing, Kathy,” said Sam.

Kathy visibly deflated, her shoulders hunching over. “It’s Kristy.”

“Right.”  Sam closed the door behind her, turning towards his friend.

Castiel watched the girl go and retreated further into the room, figuring it was best to get the hard part of the impending conversation over and done with.  “What did you pay?” he asked, taking a seat at the edge of the bed.  Castiel tried not to think what Sam had or had not been doing on those sheets earlier.

Sam made a sound of disbelief.  “I don’t pay for that kind of stuff, Castiel.”

“I wasn’t talking about the woman, Sam.  Was it your soul?”

“My soul?” A brief look of confusion clouded Sam’s face. “I don’t have a-” Sam cleared his throat, rethinking his statement. “No, I didn’t sell my… erm, soul.”

“Do not lie to me, Sam,” Castiel said.  He stood up so that he was now aggressively crowding Sam’s personal space, his face still threatening despite the fact that he had to look up at Sam, rather than down.  “What did you have to do?”

“Like I said, I didn’t do anything. It wasn’t me!” Sam took a deep breath.  “I wish it was, but…” Sam trailed off.  “There was nothing I could do!” he yelled, slamming his fist against the wall.  “They wouldn’t listen to me, any of them! How do you think I felt?  You were down getting your ass handed to you in hell, and I was up here alone.  I’m sorry, Castiel, I really am. Someone… else got to it first.  I guess we should be grateful for that, then, yeah?”

“I believe you, Sam.”  Castiel studied his friend for a moment and then said, "But if you're not in Lawrence because of me, then why are you here?"

Bobby cleared his throat.  “I’m glad that’s all sorted out and all, but now we have a serious problem. If you didn’t pull Castiel out, what did?”

Sam sat down on the bed, scooting up against the pillows.  “Not sure,” he said slowly, as if he was carefully choosing his words. “I'll tell you, it's weird. Really weird."

"What do you mean?" asked Castiel.

"Demonic omens," said Sam. "I was hunting a swarm of demons up in Seattle when they all just disappeared.  But I figured that demons just don't  _leave_ , so I kept tracking them.  Eventually them, and a bunch of others, popped up here. That's why I'm back in Lawrence, not..." Sam stopped talking and cleared his throat.

 _Not because of you_ , Castiel realized would have been the end of the sentence.  His gut clenched uncomfortably, and he willed it to stop.

“Sounds big,” commented Bobby, eyeing both Sam and Castiel, but choosing to ignore the sudden tension in the room.

“Whatever they’re planning, it can’t be good,” agreed Sam.  He awkwardly stood up, turning his back on Castiel and scuffing his shoe against the carpet.

“I worry that they have something planned,” Castiel said.  “No demon would release me from hell out of mercy.”

“Yeah, no demon,” mumbled Sam. He shook his head, dismissing whatever train of thought had been running through his head. “So what do we do now?  We’ve got a bucket full of questions and no answers.”

“Get help,” said Bobby.  “I have a friend.  Pamela.  She’s a psychic.  With something this big, she’s bound to have heard something.”

“Yeah,” Sam said, chewing on his lip, as if debating something.  “Let me just get packed up.”  He shook his head, dismissing whatever train of thought he had been contemplating, before turning to haphazardly throw clothes into his bag.

For the second time that day, Castiel once again found himself shoved into the backseat seat of a car.  Sharing a car seat with Sam left something to be desired, namely, personal space, but Sam managed to keep to his side of the vehicle.  He had even been considerate enough to make Bobby stop for burgers, Castiel’s favorite.  Castiel was about to confront Sam about the apprehension towards certain unmentioned topics when the other man spoke up.

“Hey, Castiel?” Sam asked.   “Are you… okay?”  Castiel tilted his head, curious and confused.  “I mean, you were in hell and all.”

Castiel studied his hands, now wishing to stop the conversation he had previously yearned for.  Sam cleared his throat when Castiel didn’t answer after a few moments. “I’m fine,” managed Castiel.

“You sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Are you  _sure_  you’re sure?”

“Yes, Sam.”

“Because it  _was_  Hell, Castiel-”

“I don’t remember most of it,” Castiel lied, cutting Sam off in an attempt to ward off further discussion of the subject.

“Okay.” Sam frowned, staring out the window.  He seemed as if he wanted to ask another question, but he didn’t speak and neither did Castiel.

Four uncomfortable hours later, they arrived at the psychic’s house, with Castiel’s nerves growing more on edge by the minute. Considering the woman was a psychic, her house sure gave off the whole “two and a half children with a picket fence” vibe. Bobby was the one to knock on the elaborately sculpted cedar door, with Sam and Castiel more or less cowering behind him. When the door opened to reveal an energetic brunette woman, Castiel was even more skeptical of the situation. Pamela ushered the group inside cheerfully, smiling and grabbing one of Castiel’s ass cheeks along the way.  He jumped, unprepared for the action, and she gave a chuckle.

“I thought we’d do a little looking into our crystal ball; see if we can’t catch a glimpse of our mystery monster,” said Pamela, leading them into what appeared to be a living room, with a three-seat couch along one wall and a television hung on the opposite.

“Will a crystal ball work?” asked Castiel doubtfully.

“Not an actually crystal ball, sexy.  A séance.”

Sam was wandering around Pamela’s “mojo room,” as Castiel soon found out she called it, eying various items and fidgeting with his hair, which had grown even longer since Castiel had last seen him.  Pamela regarded Sam with the same careful uneasiness, both of them avoiding the other yet neither voicing a reason for it.

“So,” Pamela began when she was ready, “Let’s all join hands and play  _Ring around the Rosie_.”

“Is now really the appropriate time for children’s games?” Castiel inquired. Sam just rolled his eyes and grabbed Castiel’s hand, taking Bobby’s in the other.  “Oh… that was supposed to be a figure of speech.”

Pamela turned to Bobby.  “Sexy and clueless, just my type.”  Bobby raised an eyebrow, responding to the unspoken joke between the two, while Sam and Castiel narrowed their eyes, trying to figure out the two adults’ relationship.

“I’ll need to touch something that our mystery monster touched,” said Pamela, breaking the moment, and Castiel felt Sam twitch at the mention of “mystery monster.”

Castiel squirmed.  “I… uh…”

“He has a handprint,” began Bobby.

Pamela’s face scrunched in confusion.  “Show me.”

“It’s… I would rather…” Castiel stuttered.  “It is on my backside,” blurted Castiel.

Sam groaned, closing his eyes and shaking his head.  The others turned to stare at Sam, so he quickly corrected himself with a smirk and quipped, “Whoa, Castiel, getting intimate with your rescuer, are we?”

Pamela placed her palm over the handprint, and Castiel’s face grew redder by the moment. She gave a squeeze, and he yelped, only furthering Sam’s amusement.  Chanting a few Latin words that Castiel was unfamiliar with, Pamela began repeating, “I conjure and command you, show me your face.”

A loud ringing noise began to pierce the air. Bobby gritted his teeth, Pamela continued to perform the séance, and Sam remained seemingly unfazed by the sound. 

“No, Dean, I will not!” shouted Pamela.  The candles set in the middle of their man-made circle began to flame up, growing angrier and brighter at Pamela’s request of, “I conjure and command you, show me your face.”

“Dean?” repeated Sam, his voice briefly sounding like unhappy pleading before it was quickly masked with falsified disbelief.

Pamela screamed, her eyes beginning to burn, turning ashy around the edges. All at once, everything went black, and the four of them were left sitting in silence.  Silence, except for Pamela’s pained groans.

“Well, why are you just standing there?” snapped Bobby.  “We need to get her to the emergency room.”

Sam drove recklessly the entire way to the hospital, running both stop signs and red lights, and ignoring the speed limits completely. Castiel clutched white-knuckled at the sides of the seat, so phased by the incident that he didn’t realize Bobby and Pamela had left the car until he felt someone shaking at his shoulders.

“Castiel, you okay?” asked Sam, his face full of worry.

“Yes, Sam. I’m feeling fine.”

"You sure?"

Castiel didn't reply, choosing to pick at a loose thread on his trench coat instead.

Sam pursed his lips in a sign of disapproval.  “Cheer up, you learned the guy’s name.”

“What makes you think it’s a guy?”

“Uh…” Sam’s lips twitched and he cast his eyes downward. “I dunno, I just kind of figured… never mind.”  He sighed.  “At least now you and Bobby can go perform every summoning ritual in the book, and meet your knight in shining armor.”

“I highly doubt this creature will be wearing armor, Sam.”

“Not the point, Castiel.”

“Right, figure of speech again?” he asked. Sam nodded absently.  He didn’t continue the conversation, so Castiel did. “You will be coming with us, won’t you?”

“I can’t,” said Sam. “I have something to do.”

“Oh.”

Castiel frowned at the evasive answer, hoping that Sam wasn’t blowing him off for Ruby. But as far as Castiel knew, Ruby had been killed by Lilith the night he had gone to Hell.  Unless Sam had somehow saved her? Castiel didn’t know, didn’t want to know, really, so he nodded mutely, turning his head away from Sam to stare at the glowing sign of the hospital.

Bobby returned a short while later with the news that although she would likely remain blind, Pamela was okay.  Castiel let go of the breath that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, relieved that nobody had died on his behalf. Sam dropped Bobby and Castiel off at a nearby motel, once again giving enigmatic reasons for his sudden departure.  Bobby frowned, but ushered Sam off, saying that Castiel and him could take care of whatever they had their hands on.

Castiel could only pace back and forth while Bobby walked the few blocks to where he had parked his car at Sam’s previous motel.  When Bobby returned, he dropped two duffle bags full of various weapons on the beds, along with a plastic bag from the local craft store that contained black spray paint.

“We’re gonna need em,” he said.  “Crack open a book, let’s summon this thing.”

The next couple of hours led to a messy motel room with papers scattered on every open surface, leaving hardly any standing room.  Occasionally Castiel or Bobby would stuff a particularly important piece into a binder to bring to the abandoned farmhouse that Bobby had spotted on their drive into town.  Sometime not long after the sun had set, Castiel cleared a small space on the floor and sat down, burying his head in his hands.

“What if this isn’t enough?” Castiel asked.  “And what if we don’t have what we need to kill it?”

Bobby grunted a reply, giving a half-hearted attempt at cleaning up some of the papers.  “Don’t matter, thing’ll be too shocked by being summoned that it won’t know what to do.”  Castiel cocked his head, unsure whether Bobby was attempting to be comforting or being plain honest.  “Well, you just going to sit around and mope all night?  Pack the car.”

* * *

 

“That’s all of it,” said Bobby, motioning to the barn wall, which was now covered in various trapping and summoning symbols.

Castiel frowned, and began to impatiently pace along the unstable wooden floor of the dilapidated old farmhouse, his mind already creating the worst-case scenarios. “I would like to leave. This creature does not seem to want to appear tonight,” he said to Bobby.

“Sit your ass down, boy,” Bobby replied.  “That Dean thing will come.” As if on cue, the wind picked up and the shingles on the roof began to make eerie scratching sounds. It died down after a minute, though, and Bobby said, “False alarm.”

“You called?”

Castiel and Bobby turned in time to see the door burst open, despite the padlock on it. They watched as a figure walked in that seemed to be a man. Well, it looked like a man.  A green-eyed, sandy-haired, gorgeous man, Castiel silently noted. But he wasn’t about to start flirting with whatever monster. The man advanced towards Castiel at a steady pace, walking with a lazy swagger.  Bobby fired several rounds of rock salt into the man’s chest, but the man kept advancing. Seeing no other options, Castiel reached for Ruby’s demon knife and jabbed it unceremoniously into the man’s chest.  Panic rushed through his veins when the man didn’t even flinch.

“Dude, rude,” he said, flinging the offending object back. Without turning around, he stopped Bobby’s advances. “Aww, how cute, you’ve got backup. But we need to be alone, sweetheart.” With that, he placed two fingers to Bobby’s head, and the man fell limp to the ground.

“What have you done to him?” Castiel demanded.

The man smirked, “He’s just going to have a little siesta.”

Now Castiel was most definitely scared.  A demon knife couldn’t kill him, and he’d just taken out Bobby. What the hell was this thing? Castiel narrowed his eyes at the creature before him.  “Who are you?” 

“I’m the one who dragged your glorious ass out of hell,” he said, smirking.  “And a very nice ass it is.  Seriously dude, you have a nicer ass than most of the women I’ve slept with.”

Castiel narrowed his eyes.  “I recon you’re Dean, then.”

“I recon so, yes,” mocked Dean, assuming an uppity posture.  He wandered over to where Castiel had laid out his weapons, examining Castiel’s favorite gun. “Colt 1911, nice.”  Dean picked up the gun, aimed it, and set it back down. “Well, I’m flattered we could all gather here today for this lovely chat, but I have business to attend to with the ladies, if you know what I mean.”

“ _What_  are you?” clarified Castiel.

Dean froze, turning in a slow circle to face Castiel.

“You really don’t know?”  He looked bored, and gave a loud sigh.  Dean stood up straighter, and in the shadow of a flash of lightning from outside, Castiel could make out the shape of two wings. “I’m an angel, you ass.”

He wanted to shout at this creature, telling him to stop impersonating an angel.  Castiel believed in angels of course, and God, but it was more on a spiritual level and less on a hunting basis, since none of the hunters he had ever talked to seemed to think angels were real supernatural beings. Even if he believed Dean (which he didn’t), Castiel still didn’t get how angels had gone from fluffy wings and halos to hunky men with an interest in custom guns.  Given that, there were a million questions Castiel wanted to phrase, but all that came out was, “I’m to call you Dean, then?”

“Last time I checked, that was my name.” Dean smirked, and took a swig from a flask that seemed to magically appear out of his pocket. His eyes traveled from Castiel’s messy hair to his worn-down trench coat and all the way down to his black converse before once again meeting Castiel’s eyes.  “So, what’s the Empire saying about me?”

“The Empire? I don’t understand that reference,” began Castiel.

“The demons, you dumbass. God, you should just see Star Wars already, it’s a classic.”

“Did you just blaspheme?”

“So what if I did?”

“I believe that is called false advertising,” Castiel said, rolling his eyes. “You’re supposed to be an angel.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to apologize in advance for what might seem like a choppy chapter: This chapter is essentially attempting to cover all of Season 4 without boring you all with small details. So bear with me for just this chapter, things will start changing next chapter. 
> 
> (I can't apologize enough for the multiple scene changes - the original chapter 2 went into detail with the hunts, but was too boring to read, so I scrapped it.)

A year ago, Castiel might have gotten a good laugh out of the suggestion that angels really existed – as something in the hunting world, at least. He might have laughed even harder about an angel that could eat out an entire pantry.  No, Castiel did not believe in angels.

Now, the lack of items in the pantry, minus a very questionable container of canned tuna, seemed to suggest otherwise.

“You need to get more food,” said Dean, his feet kicked back on the table.  He picked up a jar of peanut butter and scooped a large dollop onto a plastic spoon, taking a long lick of the substance.

“I would, except I seem to be pre-occupied by my job and entertaining you,” Castiel remarked.  He wished the angel would just flutter off to Heaven or wherever he went when he wasn’t bothering Castiel.  Recently, though, bother Castiel was all he did.

Castiel had been visiting Bobby for lore on a hunt when Dean had banged through the door, yelled, “Honey, I’m home!” and settled himself into the kitchen.  Save for several trips to the bathroom, two six-hour naps, and one trip to the store for a tube of Tide-to-Go, the angel remained firmly rooted to the kitchen table.  Even worse, Dean’s only sources of entertainment seemed to be terrible Spanish soap operas and annoying the crap out of Castiel, the latter of which was currently happening.

Castiel glared at the angel.  “Don’t you have something better to do with your time, aside from eat all of my food and distract me from hunts?”

“Nope.”  Dean took another lick of peanut butter.   He stuck the spoon back into the jar and tilted his head back.  “Well, I could go visit the McBride twins again, but I’m still a little sore from that.”

Castiel’s mouth tightened, the corners of his mouth turning into a slight frown.  Before his current two-day stay, Dean had been popping in and out of Bobby’s kitchen for the past three weeks, and it was almost as if he planned each visit to be at the most inconvenient of times.  The first time Dean had visited, they were discussing angels and Castiel’s doubt that Dean was to be trusted.  The next time, Dean had caused a woman to faint by materializing in front of her during one of Castiel’s hunts.  There were more incidents of course, but the rest were more irksome than troublesome.  Like now.

Dean set the jar of peanut butter on the table, interrupting Castiel’s thoughts.  “I’m beginning to get the feeling that you don’t like me, Cas.”

“I don’t,” Castiel remarked idly, flipping through newspapers for potential hunts.

“Why not?” asked Dean, sitting up.  “I’m a joy to be around!”

“No,” said Castiel, “You’re really not.”

“Name three reasons why, and I’ll believe you.”

Castiel sighed and set the paper down.  “For starters, you just ate Bobby’s entire pantry, which costs money to replace - money that I don’t have.  He also lives twenty minutes outside of town.  Twenty minutes I will now have to spend on buying food instead of finding a hunt, as I should be doing – which, I might mention, you are also distracting me from.”

“Hunts are boring,” said Dean with a shrug. “I thought I’d be doing you a favor.”

“You’re not,” Castiel said. He briefly wondered if punching an angel in the face would be considered a sin.

Dean looked amused at Castiel’s less-than-enthusiastic reaction and said, “Continue.”

“Secondly, your arrivals are ill-timed.  They are often distracting, and in a few occasions they have been dangerous.”

“That was one time!” exclaimed Dean.  Castiel glanced up from the newspaper to glare at the angel.  Dean scratched his head and ducked it down embarrassedly. “Alright, fine. You still need a third reason, though.”

“You have no manners.”

“Name one example – except for now – when I’ve had bad manners.”

“Now.”

“I said not now,” argued Dean, removing his legs from the table to sit up properly.

Castiel hid a smile. “Too bad,” he said, returning to his newspaper, overlooking the way Dean crossed his arms and glowered at Castiel.

When Castiel still refused to reply, Dean said, “I guess I’m a joy to be around, then.”

Castiel ignored him, choosing to take a red pen and circle an article in northern Indiana where several women had gone missing over the past four weeks.  Only three bodies had been recovered, all with significant blood loss, despite the only wounds being a bite to the neck.  If Castiel believed in betting, he would place all his money on a vampire trying to re-grow his nest.

A line of red strayed all over the article as Dean tore the newspaper out of Castiel’s hands.  The hunter glared at the angel.  “Poor manners,” was all Castiel said, snatching his newspaper back from Dean.

“C’mon, Cas, I’m not _that_ bad,” continued Dean, giving the hunter a cocky smile. “If you can’t name a specific event, at least give me a few general ideas of what I do.”

“I can do better than a few.  You chew with your mouth open.  You eat with your fingers.  You interrupt sentences.  You don’t wash your hands before you eat, nor do you say grace.”

“I’m an angel, I don’t need to say grace.”

“You interrupt sentences.”

“I was just correcting you!”

“ _You interrupt sentences_ ,” repeated Castiel.  “You are incredibly childish-”

He paused, watching as Dean’s brows furrowed together in concentration.  Castiel raised an eyebrow.  “Angel radio,” said Dean, as if that explained everything.

“- and you don’t listen to anything I ever say, do you?”

Dean still didn’t answer, so Castiel continued to stare with wide eyes, expecting the angel to answer.  Dean exasperatedly said, “I can communicate with other angels in my head, alright? Now stop staring.” Dean flinched when Castiel kept his gaze on Dean.  “That’s really creepy.”

“My apologies,” said Castiel.  He returned to scanning the paper for other hunts, looking up when a small breeze rustled the paper.  He blinked, finding himself alone in the room.  Dean had disappeared, just like that.  Castiel couldn’t help but allow another sigh to pass his lips.  “Angels,” he said, shaking his head.

* * *

 

Sam rocked back on his heels and shoved his hands into his pockets, letting out warm puff of breath into the cold winter air.  He checked his watch for the tenth time, watched cars pull in and out of the gas station, even held a brief conversation with a man waiting in line for the rest room, but none of the events helped pass the time.

“Come here often?” asked a familiar female voice, causing Sam to spin around.

“Ruby!” he exclaimed.  “Where were you? I’ve been waiting for over an hour.”

“I had to make sure we weren’t followed,” she said, nervously checking out the surroundings. Seeing no one, she continued.  “So, is it true, then?”

“Is what true?” Sam asked.

“That Castiel was pulled from Hell by an angel?”

Sam ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah,” he said, clearing his throat. “Yeah, something like that.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about this earlier?”

“Because I didn’t know about it, Ruby!”  Sam fidgeted and lowered his voice as a random trucker walked past them.  The man tipped his beaten-up baseball cap and Sam gave him a small nod in greeting. “Why does it bother you so much?” he whispered.

Ruby rolled her eyes and gestured up and down her body. “Hello, demon! I don’t want to be stuck with more of those things than I have to!  They smite first and ask questions later.”

“Not all of them,” said Sam, and the corner of Ruby’s mouth quirked up into a tiny smile.

“No, not all of them,” she agreed, reaching over to hold Sam’s hand, and then dropping it as quickly as she had taken it.  “But it wasn’t you, then?”

“What wasn’t me?”

“That saved Castiel from Hell?”

“No, it was-”

A flutter of wings interrupted Sam’s sentence, causing Ruby spin around and hide behind Sam’s towering body. The breeze from the newly arrived angel was followed by a deep voice saying, “Sammy!”

“Dean.”

“Still hanging out with the scum of the Earth, then?” asked Dean, his gaze flicking away from Ruby to flirt with a blonde chick that was strutting past.  She winked at Dean, who gave a sly smile in return, before returning his attention back to the conversation.

“Sam, would you please control your brute of a brother?” Ruby requested, now feeling confident enough to step out from where she had been hiding behind Sam.

“Sam, would you please control your ugly excuse of a girlfriend?” mocked Dean, straightening his posture and making a face at the demon.

“Both of you, save it,” said Sam, effectively silencing the two.  “In case you haven’t noticed, we kind of have a huge problem on our hands. Something big is happening, and we don’t know what it is.”

“Yeah, and now that _he’s_ here, I’m not going to stay around to find out,” said Ruby, backing up from the two men with her hands raised.

 “Wait, Ruby,” Sam started to say, but the demon had already vanished.  Sam pressed his mouth into a thin line and turned back to Dean. “What the hell, Dean!  You couldn’t just be civil for once?”

“When am I ever civil?” asked Dean, shrugging.  “Besides, she’s no good for you.”

“Let me be the judge of who is and isn’t good for me,” said Sam.

“Sam, you’re dating a _demon_.”

“So?”

“So, come on! Really?” Dean said.

“At least I _have_ a steady relationship, unlike your never-ending string of one night stands,” Sam shot back.

“Yeah, well, at least they’re human, Sam!”  Dean stood up straighter and stepped forward, crowding Sam’s personal space. 

Sam gulped, unsettled by Dean’s sudden closeness.

“Ruby seems pleasant and helpful now, Sam, but what happens when that backfires, huh?”  Sam stepped back against the wall, while Dean continued moving closer.  “She’s going to be the death of you, Sam!  That, or she’ll turn you into one of _them_ ,” he spat.

Sam stared into Dean’s eyes, watching the fierce glare of the angel’s green eyes.  “At least I’m living my own life and making my own choices,” said Sam, already regretting the words flowing from his mouth, “rather than following orders like a brainwashed soldier.”

A fleeting glimpse of hurt crossed Dean’s face, but it was quickly masked with anger.  “Don’t,” growled Dean, his fingers bunching in the fabric of Sam’s shirt.

“Want to know what I don’t get Dean?  Why do you have so much blind faith in Heaven’s orders?  You don’t even know where they’re coming from!”

Dean gave a small laugh.  He pursed his lips and gave a tight smile, nodding slightly as he dropped his eyes to the ground.  “Really, Sam?  Is that how you see it? It’s not _blind faith_ , Sam.  It’s called obedience.”

Sam remained silent.

“But you wouldn’t know about that, would you?” continued Dean.

“No, I wouldn’t, because unlike you, I’m not ready to go sacrificing myself for a cause I know nothing about!”

“I do know something about them. I know they’re my orders, and I know I’m going to listen to them.”

“That doesn’t mean they’re always right,” Sam said softly.

“We have orders, Sam!” Dean repeated, his voice growing louder. “You should try following them sometime.”

“So if Heaven tells you to just fly on into Hell, you’re just going to do it, no questions asked?” asked Sam.  “Oh, wait, you already _did_.”

“I did that to save _your_ pathetic little friend,” Dean said angrily.

“And why _did_ you save him?  How often did I pray, asking that Castiel didn’t have to go in the first place? Every night I asked for someone to do something about it, but all you stupid angels ignored me!  What changed?  Why did you do it, Dean?”

“I had-”

“If you say orders, so help me,” said Sam.

“Orders,” finished Dean.  Dean stepped back, releasing his grip on Sam’s plaid shirt.  He clenched his jaw and turned away from Sam.  “Forget it.”

“No, Dean, I won’t just forget it!”

“I said drop it!” yelled Dean, spinning around.  He stood with his feet planted firmly on the ground, his chest rising and falling rapidly.  If Sam could see Dean’s wings then, he would have guessed that they were spread out in a display of power and warning.

Sam gulped and squeezed his eyes shut.  “Dean, look, I’m-”   He opened his eyes, finding the parking lot empty, save for a handful of colorful semi-trucks and fatigued drivers.  “-sorry.”

Sam scowled and silently cursed Dean for being a stupid, stubborn bastard.  He rubbed at his elbow, realizing that when Dean had shoved him against the wall, the coarse bricks had scraped him and drawn blood.  He headed back to his black Charger and slammed the door a little harder than necessary.

* * *

 

“I’m going to take a walk,” said Castiel, exiting Bobby’s library. The library now had the appearance of having been ravaged by a tornado, thanks to the handiwork of some seriously pissed off spirits.  Or witnesses, as Bobby had said. If the Rising of the Witnesses really was a sign of the apocalypse, then Castiel at least wanted to be somewhere peaceful. He wandered out of the house and down past the garage, heading towards the scrap lot.  For some reason, the rusting metal of the once-loved cars brought him almost poetic-like serenity, and Castiel enjoyed going out there to clear his mind.

Castiel weaved his ways between battered old cars, coming to a stop at an Oldsmobile 442 that had definitely seen better days.  Not that Castiel would know that, though.  Cars had always been Gabriel’s fascination, not Castiel’s.   Castiel sighed and leaned against the worn, rusted metal, closing his eyes.  After taking a deep breath, he leaned forward again and opened his eyes.

“1969 Oldsmobile 442, nice.  Wouldn’t mind driving one of these puppies myself,” said Dean.

Castiel startled slightly at the angel’s deep voice, before managing to say, “Hello, Dean.”

Dean’s focus was still on the car, however.  “But who am I kidding?  Who needs cars when you’ve got wings?”  Castiel rolled his eyes, pushed off the car’s bumper, and started to stride away.  “Wow, Cas, you’re really booking it out of here.  Who died?”

“Me, almost,” grumbled Castiel, freezing, yet still not facing Dean.  “It would have been nice to have a warning about the breaking of the seals, and more importantly, the apocalypse.”

“Oh, yeah, thanks for that by the way,” said Dean.  Castiel tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. “Almost didn’t think you were going to put those suckers back to rest-”

“Because we almost didn’t, no thanks to you.”

“-and then I wouldn’t have gotten as much time with the Olsen twins.”

Castiel crossed his arms and turned to study Dean’s face.  The angel’s eyes were sparkling with amusement and his mouth was split into a wide grin. 

“Where were you when I almost got my heart ripped out?” asked Castiel. “I thought angels were supposed to be guardians.  Not dicks.”

“Angels are warriors of God.  I’m a soldier,” proclaimed Dean, jutting out his chin proudly.  “Read the Bible.”

“I already have, and it says nothing about the angel of copulation and terrible one line jokes.”

“Ouch, Cas, that one really hurt.”

Castiel sat down on the trunk of the car, watching the angel with reserved annoyance.  “So which one are you, then?  I don’t recall a Dean being anywhere.”

“And I don’t _recall_ a Castiel in the Bible,” said Dean, mocking Castiel with his every word.  “You are named after an angel, right?”

Castiel didn’t gratify Dean with any verbal answer, choosing to narrow his eyes instead. 

“That’s what I thought.  You know, you humans are so stupid sometimes.  You chose to name us with weird-ass names full of random letters, but I can’t say I’ve ever met an Adnachiel or Sachiel.”

“I don’t care what you think about my name, Dean,” said Castiel through gritted teeth. 

“Wow, calm down, I was kidding.  Why can’t you take a joke?”

“I don’t know,” countered Castiel. “Why can’t you stop loafing around and actually do your job for once?”

Dean smirked.  “I am doing my job.”

“And what would that be?”

“Watching people.  Investigating things.  You know, the family business.”

“And I suppose you’re going to tell me that you’re investigating the rising of the witnesses?” asked Castiel.  “Some job of that you’re doing.  I don’t think sleeping with women counts as research.”

“Joke all you want,” Dean said, “But I had more important things to deal with.”

“What could be more important than the apocalypse?”

Dean chose not to answer Castiel’s question directly and instead launched into a long-winded description.  “The rising of the witnesses is one of the 66 seals.  They’re being broken by Lilith.  You know, the creepy little blonde girl who has a sweet tooth and a hobby of killing sweet old grandpas? That one.  Sweetheart, ain’t she?  She chose the spirits of those hunters like you couldn’t save, so that they’d charge right after you like Mexican fighting bulls.”

“That explains why I saw the ghosts of familiar people,” said Castiel.  “We put those spirits to rest, though.  That should have fixed things.”

“The seal was still broken – it was already broken by the time you started seeing ghosts.”

“Okay, so what’s so terrible about these seals anyway?  What does the apocalypse even mean?”

“Think of the seals like locks on a door.  Last one opens and Lucifer gets to stretch his legs, maybe kill a few hundred thousand people while he’s at it.  My job – you know, the one that you’re convinced I don’t do – is to stop Lucifer.”

“Excellent work so far.”  Dean raised an eyebrow and Castiel said, “With stopping the witnesses and all.”

“We tried.  Some battles we win, some battles we lose,” said Dean. 

“When you put it that way, I feel much better,” Castiel spat.

Dean’s eyes hardened. “There’s other battles to be fought. Don’t talk about something you don’t know squat about.  Six of my friends died in the field this week.  How do you think I feel about that?”  Dean stepped closer with each word, crowding Castiel. 

Castiel gulped, his Adam’s Apple bobbing slightly.  He remained silent.

“You should show me some respect,” said Dean.  The angel was so close that Castiel saw the muscle in his cheek twitch when Dean clenched his jaw.  “I dragged you out of Hell, and I can definitely toss you back in.”

“Maybe you should have left me there then, seeing I’m such a hassle to your daily vacationing,” Castiel said.

“Your redemption was a direct order from Heaven.” 

“Maybe Heaven should have considered that my fate was already sealed.”

“Maybe you should consider that you don’t know your true fate.”  Dean’s glare intensified.  “Destiny can’t be changed, Castiel.  You of all people should know that.”

Castiel once again found himself speechless in front of the angel.  He shuffled his feet, drawing patterns in the red dirt of the scrap-yard.

Dean turned his back on Castiel, appearing as if he was about to leave, but then he stopped, turning back to stare at the hunter.  “Keep an eye on Sammy. That Ruby chick isn’t up to anything good.”

With a flutter of invisible wings, Dean was gone, leaving Castiel to ponder what Dean had meant, or even how the angel knew the other hunter.  Dumbfounded, Castiel made his way back to the house.

* * *

 

“I’m just saying, Cas, we almost got killed chasing after Samhain.  We can’t just keep running around unprepared.”

Sam, Bobby, and Castiel were sitting in Bobby’s living room, which had since been cleaned up of its post-witnesses mess.  The other night, Dean had made a visit, suggesting that Castiel should look into the Halloween plans of a handful of witches, but that he was unable to help due to mysterious “other duties.”  The witches had released Samhain and broken the seal despite Castiel’s efforts, and Sam had nearly gotten killed by the demon in the process.  

“Sam’s right, Castiel,” said Bobby, crossing his arms on his desk and leaning forward.  “This is the damn apocalypse we’re talking about.  We can’t go running in unprepared.”

“We also can’t just _let_ the apocalypse happen,” Castiel argued.

“There’s not much we can do, other than wait,” Bobby said.  “Course, it would help if those damned winged bastards would actually help us out a bit.”

A rustling of feathers and then, “Who you calling a winged bastard?”

Castiel rolled his eyes.  “You.”

Dean returned the comment with a snarky look, before making his way over to the couch where Sam was sitting. He stood looming over Sam and said, “Scoot over, Sasquatch.”

“Jerk,” Sam said, refusing to move.

“Bitch,” said Dean, sitting on Sam’s lap and settling his back against the taller man’s chest.

Bobby raised an eyebrow, glancing between the two younger men. He tried to recall an instance when Sam had met Dean, but couldn’t remember Castiel mentioning anything about it. “Am I missing something?” he asked finally.

Sam chose that moment to shove Dean off of his lap, causing the angel to end up in a disheveled heap on the floor.  “Yeah, Sammy, are they missing something?”

“I… uh…” started Sam. His eyes flitted nervously between Dean and Castiel.  “This is Dean.”

Castiel narrowed his eyes, trying to figure out what Sam was hiding.  “I know.”

“He’s… uh… We’re…”

“Sammy’s my little baby brother, except he kind of skipped over the part about being little,” interjected Dean, who was now rubbing his head and casting Sam a sour glare.

“Come again?” said Bobby, standing up from his seat.

Castiel exchanged a glance with Bobby. “How can you be related to Dean?” Castiel asked Sam.  “Is Dean possessing your brother?”

“Hold up, I’m not possessing anyone-” snapped Dean.

At the same time, Sam had turned to Dean to yell, “I wasn’t going to tell them yet, you asshole.”

“Why is it my fault?”

“Because you’re the one who said it!”

“What, you ashamed of me or something?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact!”

Bobby stepped between the now-standing men and yelled, “Both you idjits, shut it!”  Sam and Dean ceased their arguing immediately to stare at Bobby.  “You two are going to sit down like civilized people-”

“I’m not a person,” mumbled Dean, which earned him a fierce glare from Bobby.

“- and answer some questions.”

And that was how Castiel found himself sitting at a table with two angels and an old alcoholic hunter.  If he hadn’t been so confused by Sam’s confession, Castiel might have thought that it was the set up for a bad joke.

“So you _are_ an angel, then?” asked Castiel, his gaze flickering from a bright-red embarrassed Sam to a very bored Dean.  Dean stood up and walked over to the fridge, probably looking for something to eat.  He returned to the table and popped open the cap to a beer bottle, waiting for Sam to respond.

“I… yes.”

“Why didn’t you say anything earlier?”

“I didn’t want you to hate me,” said Sam, licking his lips.  “I thought that if I pretended to be a hunter, other hunters wouldn’t try to kill me.”

“Touching, Sam,” Dean said, taking a sip of his beer.

“Shut it, Dean.”

“Why?” asked Castiel.  “You’re an angel.  Why would you want to be a hunter?”

Dean set down his beer.  “Because Sammy here wanted to be normal.  Heaven’s orders were - and still are - too good for him.”

“No,” argued Sam, “I just don’t always assume Heaven’s orders are right, unlike you.”

“Oh, right, because having a demon girlfriend is _so_ much better,” Dean snapped.  “One day that’s going to come back and bite you in the ass.”

“And blindly following orders won’t do the same for you?” asked Sam.  Dean’s jaw clenched and he narrowed his eyes at his brother, who instead turned to Castiel.  “Now you know why I don’t like Heaven.  Because of idiots like him,” said Sam.

“Enough of the brotherly love.  What poor bastards got saddled with you two bouncin’ around inside them?” interjected Bobby.  “Because angel or demon, that still ain’t right.”

“Angels don’t possess people, Bobby,” Sam said.  “I have permission to be in this man’s body.”

“Gross, Sammy.  Sounds like a bad pick-up line,” said Dean.

“How is that even a pick-up line?”

“I dunno.  It actually sounds more like an explanation you’d give to the cops,” said Dean.  Sam fumed at Dean, who gave a gleeful smile.

Bobby crossed his arms, not amused by either of the angels’ antics.  “Alright, what about this one?” he asked, staring directly at Dean.

“He’s dead,” said Dean offhandedly.

“You killed him?” Castiel asked, eyes widening.  He picked up an empty beer bottle and held it protectively, suddenly feeling threatened by the angel.

“Woah, woah, woah!” said Dean, jumping up from his chair and backing up from the table. “Dude jumped off of a ten-story building, he killed himself!   I just asked for post-mortem propriety.” Still wary of Dean, Castiel remained in his defensive stance.  “Jeeze, put that down, would you?”

Castiel reluctantly relinquished his weapon.  “What about Sam’s vessel?  Who was he?”

“Ironically, Dean Smith’s half-brother.  Mister suave millionaire’s daddy had an affair, and out popped Sam Wesson.  Poor kid knew all along about the affair, and couldn’t handle it when his brother bit it.  Prayed for help.”  Dean pointed to Sam.  “Help came.”

Sam rolled his eyes and gave Dean a look of dismay. “Really, Dean?”

Dean shrugged.  “It’s true.  Anyway, as much as I’d like to sit around and play twenty questions, there is a reason I’m here, you know.”

“You mean you’re not just here to make me miserable?”  Sam asked sarcastically.

“Shocking, isn’t it?”

Sam’s lips pressed into a thin line, and he stood up from the table to pace around the room.

Dean raised his eyebrows and shook his head.  “Anyway,” he said, returning to the conversation, “Some low-level demon scum ratted on Alastair and said he was planning to break a seal tonight.”

“Alastair?” asked Castiel, gulping.

Dean cringed.  “Right, sorry, forgot about that.”  Castiel stared at his hands awkwardly. 

“You’ll be fine,” said Dean, standing up to walk over to Castiel.  “Just gotta prevent the dude from killing two reapers.  Not too hard.”

Castiel started to protest, mumbling, “Seems pretty difficult to me.”

Dean continued talking.  “He’s got a warehouse up on 44th street, but it’s warded from angels.  If you need my help, just scratch the paint on some of the sigils.”

“What about me?” interjected Sam.

“Same thing.  Once Cas here breaks the warding symbols, we can go in.”

Sam glanced at Bobby, who shrugged.  “I’ll go with him,” he offered.

“See?” said Dean.  He placed his hands on Castiel’s shoulders. “Knock ‘em dead, Cas.”  Dean ruffled Castiel’s already messy hair, and in a flutter of wings, he was gone.

“Alastair?” asked Sam.

“A story for another time,” Castiel said, not promising anything.

* * *

 

The next time Dean fluttered into Castiel’s personal space, he wasn’t alone.  A woman with dirty blonde hair who was dressed in a black overcoat was standing next to him, and for a brief moment Castiel wondered if she was Dean’s girlfriend.

That thought quickly disappeared when Dean’s face hardened and he squirmed uncomfortably.  Castiel also noted that for the first time ever, Dean was wearing a suit.  A legitimate, navy blue, button down suit, complete with a green and silver striped tie. The angel appeared strangely business-like in his new attire.   It was a strange sight for Castiel, seeing Dean in something other than an unbuttoned plaid shirt and an old leather jacket.

The woman standing next to him placed two fingers to Castiel’s forehead saying, “You need to come with us.”

Castiel found himself standing in front of an old warehouse.  Cracks were running through the concrete like spider webs, allowing weeds to fight their way up and into the world.  The building itself had probably been condemned a long time ago.  The windows were broken and had jagged edges, while strands of ivy snaked up the crumbling brick walls to reach the openings.  On the door in front of them, the metal hinges had rusted over, and the paint had chipped off to create a red and black collage of splotches. 

Castiel tilted his head to the sky, noticing for the first time that it was raining.  He closed his trench coat, tying a knot around his waist.

“Are you ever going to lose that damn thing?” asked Dean.  Castiel started to answer, saying he liked the tan coat, but Dean waved him off and opened the door.  The woman walked inside first, and Castiel followed, glancing back to Dean for permission.  Dean nodded, encouraging Castiel to go in.

When the woman spoke, her voice was that of someone with power, and of someone who would rather be anywhere else.  “Alastair is inside, and we need you to handle him,” said the woman bluntly.  Castiel stared at her, confused as to what he was supposed to do.  “Time’s a wasting,” she added.

Dean gave Castiel a sympathetic glance and walked over to another metal door, similar in every way to the one they had just passed through, except that this one had a small window.  “Shut it, Bela.”

Bela, apparently, made a _tsk-tsk_ sound with her tongue and said, “Now Dean, I think you need to remember who’s in charge here.”

Dean forced a smile.  “Thank you, I was trying so hard to forget that.”

Castiel cleared his throat, trying to break up the argument and remind the two that he was still there.  Dean turned from the window to look at Castiel.

“If you don’t want to do this, Cas, I understand,” he began.  “But I really need you to.”

Bela frowned.  “He has no choice,” she said sharply.  She picked at a nail and added, “All you have to do is figure out who’s killing the angels.”

Castiel turned to Dean.  “Why is she here?” he asked.

Bela gave a cold smile.  “Our little Dean here was getting too close to his human friends,” she said crisply.  “I’m here to make sure his emotions don’t get in the way.”

Castiel kept quiet, unsure of what to say. “Is it true?” he eventually asked.

Dean gave a curt nod, suddenly finding the threads on his new tie more interesting than the current conversation.

“Now, if you don’t mind, I have other things to do,” said Bela. “If I’ve heard correctly, you know how to torture properly.”

Castiel flinched at her honesty.  He couldn’t go in there and do this.  He just couldn’t.  He had hated it in Hell, but that was Hell, and this was Earth.  Torturing here would be a thousand times worse.

“Dean, don’t make me do this, please,” begged Castiel.

Dean shot Castiel a sympathetic half-smile.  “I’m sorry, Cas.  She’s giving the orders.”

Castiel faced Bela. “You can’t tell Dean what to do.  I refuse to help with whatev-”

“In you go,” Bela said, cutting off Castiel.

Castiel hardly had a minute to think before Bela pushed him through the door and locked the latch behind him.  Castiel spun around and tried to push the door open, but it wouldn’t budge.  Through the window, Castiel could see that Dean appeared to be arguing with Bela behind the door.  Castiel held his breath and turned slowly back to the better-lit portion of the room, cringing at the scene in front of him.

Alastair was pegged up on a strange star-shaped cross, with multiple devils traps and sigils surrounding him on the ground, ceiling, and even on the metal of the cross.  Castiel could no longer see his demonic face, which he was glad for, because Alastair had been the ugliest demon he had seen in Hell – and that was saying something.  Alastair’s face was plastered with an ugly grin, showing all of his bloody teeth.  Castiel gave one last glance towards the door, and stepped out of the shadows.

* * *

 

Castiel woke up with a throbbing in his head.  He vaguely registered someone repeating, “Cas, Cas, buddy.  Wake up.  You gotta wake up, Cas.  C’mon, get up.”  Castiel peeked one eye open, resisting the overwhelming urge to fall back asleep.  A blurry image of Dean squatting over him and the glare of bright lights slowly came into view.

Dean had loosened his tie and undone the top button on his collar.  Even his sleeves were rolled up to his shoulders, and the navy suit jacket was missing.  Castiel was glad to see the angel looking like himself once again.  He slowly opened his eyes, squinting at Dean.

“Thank God,” said Dean, “I thought we lost you for a moment.”

Castiel let out a small grunt and let his eyes flutter shut again.  He felt Dean’s hand slapping against his cheek, so he made an effort to open his eyes again.

Dean smiled at Castiel.  “Heya, Cas.”  He wrapped a hand around the back of Castiel’s head and helped him to sit up.  “You’re not going to pass out on me again, are you?” he joked.

Castiel shook his head, wincing at the pain that followed.  He touched a hand to his temple, unsurprised to find that it was bleeding.  “What happened?” asked Castiel.

Dean stood up, turning his head away from Castiel.  Castiel followed his gaze, to see Sam standing against the wall, shoulders slumped and hands in his jeans pockets.   Sam met Dean’s eye for a brief second, shrugged, and returned to studying his feet.

“Alastair got the jump on you and knocked you out.  Sammy here arrived just in time to…” Dean trailed off, glancing towards Sam and setting his jaw.  “Work some demon hoodoo.  You mumbled something about Lilith not killing the angels before passing out on the floor.”

Castiel rubbed at his head, wishing he could have something to wrap his head in.  “I remember Alastair saying that Lilith would have killed several hundred angels, not just six.”

“Yeah, well, he wasn’t lying.”

“He wasn’t?”

“Turns out Bela, the scheming little bitch she is, set you up.”  Dean balled his hands into fists.  “Plan was to have Alastair kill you and let him walk free.”

“Why?”  Castiel pressed his palm against the wound, willing it to stop bleeding.  He could feel the blood rushing through his head, almost as if his heart had switched places with his brain.

“Bela-” started Dean.  He noticed Castiel grimacing and reached out to touch Castiel’s head. Castiel drew back slightly. Dean paused.  “Let me just…”

Castiel let Dean touch his temple.  He felt a searing pain shoot through his body, and then the throbbing stopped entirely.  Castiel felt his head again, finding his wound closed and the blood completely gone.

“Thank you,” said Castiel, still marveling at the fact that Dean had just healed his wounds.

“Bela was the one killing the garrison,” Sam said, finally speaking up from the other side of the room.  Sam squirmed when Dean turned to glare at him, a motion that did not go unnoticed by Castiel.

Castiel chose to ignore the tension and instead asked, “Why would she be killing her own kind?  She was an angel, right?”

Dean ran his fingers through her hair.  “Yeah, she’s an angel,” said Dean.  He strode over to the cross that Alastair had been hanging on and absently fingered the chains, before saying slowly, “She’s trying to raise Lucifer.”

“What?!” exclaimed Castiel, clamoring up into a standing position.  “Why?”

“Because Bela only does things for Bela.  If she can profit from it, she’ll make sure it happens.”

“Then why didn’t you just stop her?”

“I didn’t know!” said Dean hotly.

Castiel pressed on. “We should find her, and stop her before she keeps going with this plan of hers.”

“Gee, I would Cas, but hey, guess what?  We still have Lilith breaking the seals, too!” shouted Dean.  “Newsflash, we’re in the middle of the friggin’ apocalypse!  I have other things to worry about!”

“We should be focusing on this,” said Castiel.  “If we can stop Bela, maybe Lilith will stop too.  We can still stop this.”

Dean reeled around, his eyes narrowing as he spat out, “We wouldn’t have to stop this if you hadn’t broken the damn seal in the first place!”

Castiel froze.  He cast his eyes downward and said quietly, “It’s true then?  Alastair wasn’t lying?  I broke the first seal?”

“Why do you think we pulled you out of Hell, dumbass?  Because you were pretty?” yelled Dean.  “Newsflash, buddy.  You’re no more special than the rest of us!”

“Dean!” Sam exclaimed, appalled.  Both Dean and Castiel ignored him.

“Maybe you should have left me there, seeing as I’m so much trouble to you up here,” said Castiel.

“Believe me,” Dean said, “I would have _loved_ to.”

“Then why didn’t you?” challenged Castiel.

“Because I had orders!” Dean’s chest was heaving from angry breathing and his shoulders were squared, daring Castiel to make his move.

Sam flinched, and seeing the sudden turn in the argument, he stepped in between the hunter and other angel.  When the only sounds echoing throughout the room were Dean’s deep breaths, Sam spoke up.  “Both of you, stop blaming each other and calm down for a moment.”

 “And you’re one to talk,” sneered Dean.  “I know what you’ve been up to, following Ruby around like a sad little puppy.”

“For the thousandth time, Dean, she’s _helping_.  We know where Lilith is already, we’re just planning our attack.”

“Oh, and you didn’t think to tell me about this?”

“No, I didn’t want to tell you about this, because I knew you’d flip out!”

“You know what?  I don’t have to listen to your crap,” said Dean, leaving in a flutter of wings.

Sam exhaled, throwing his head back to stare disinterestedly at the ceiling.  “He can be a real jerk sometimes,” Sam told Castiel.

“I’ve gathered,” said Castiel, his shoulders still rigid and body still tense.  He relaxed a bit, and asked, “What was Dean talking about with Ruby?  I thought she was dead.”

“She’s not,” Sam said cautiously.  “Look, I should have said something, but Ruby said it wasn’t the right time.  She thought that if I told you about our plans that you would want to go hunting Lilith right away.”

Castiel frowned.  “Sam, I don’t trust her-”

“Castiel, I already heard the speech from my brother; I don’t want to hear it from you, too,” said Sam.

“-She told you not to tell me or Dean.  That can’t be good.”

“Ruby had her reasons,” Sam said tersely.

Castiel closed his eyes and sighed.  When he opened his eyes again, Sam was gone.  Just his luck, pissing off two angels in one day.  Castiel angrily strode out of the building and out into the pouring rain.  A strike of lightning illuminated the sky, bringing back unwanted memories of when he had first met Dean.  Castiel cleared his mind, telling himself he probably wouldn’t be seeing either Sam or Dean again for a long time, if ever.  He sighed and began trekking down the nearby road, searching for a payphone or any sign of life.

The rain only poured harder.

* * *

 

Two weeks later, Castiel fell asleep in a hotel room and woke up in the back seat of a car. Castiel sat up suddenly, staring out the window into the darkness of the night.

“Bobby said it was yours,” came a voice from the front seat.  “Didn’t see you as an Impala kind of guy.”

“Dean?”

“Yep,” said the angel.  He took a particularly sharp turn that caused Castiel to slide across the leather seats to the other side of the car.

“Why are you… what are you doing?”

“We’re going to pay a visit to Sammy and Ruby.”

Castiel laid his head against the window, watching his breath blow puffs of steam onto the glass.  Castiel observed Dean at the wheel, suddenly realizing that Dean was _driving_.

“Did you steal a car?”

“No.  Don’t you recognize it? Bobby said it was yours,” said Dean, pressing his foot harder to the gas pedal and flying around another turn.  When he straightened the car out once again, Dean spoke again. “I have to say, I didn’t peg you as an Impala kind of guy.”

Castiel sat in silence, the sound of nothing but his car’s engine filling the air. “I’m not,” he said eventually.

“What?” asked Dean, sparing a glance to the backseat.

“Watch the road,” Castiel remarked.  “I said I’m not.  I’m not an Impala kind of guy.  The car was a gift from my brother Gabriel.”

“You have a brother?”

Castiel nodded, but remembered Dean couldn’t see him, so he said, “And a sister, too.  Gabriel left before I could really get to know him.  He used to send money to my foster family from time to time to make up for it, even though it really didn’t.”

Dean grimaced.  “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.  The car was a gift for my 16th birthday.  He said it reminded him of a car from a TV show with two brothers, and that I would look good in it.  I tend to disagree.”

“If it makes you feel any better, the family upstairs isn’t exactly close, either.” 

Castiel watched Dean’s face through the reflection of the rearview mirror.  Dean’s eyes stayed focused on the road, but he worried his lip between his teeth and fiddled his thumbs on the steering wheel.   Castiel decided to change the subject.

“So… Sam?” he asked.  Dean remained silent.  “At least tell me why we’re driving.”

“Place is covered in sigils. Can’t use any angel powers,” answered Dean shortly.  “Go back to sleep.”

* * *

 

“Sam!” yelled Dean, bursting through the door to the chapel of Saint Mary’s Covenant.

Castiel followed closely behind, arriving just in time to see Sam stab Ruby in the chest. Orange sparks glowed in her open mouth as Sam twisted the knife.  Ruby fell limply to the ground, but Castiel’s focus was drawn to the beam of shooting from the ground to the ceiling.  It was surrounded by a circular swirl of blood, originating from Lilith’s dead body.  Streams of red oozed and pulsed, growing wider and wider.

“Dean,” said Sam, clutching on to his brother.  “I’m sorry.”

“Not now, Sammy,” Dean said, dragging Sam by the arm towards the door.  Sam clutched onto Dean’s leather jacket, but Dean kept trudging on.

“You were right,” continued Sam.  “She was… I’m sorry.”

A loud bang echoed through the small church as the heavy wooden doors slammed shut, locking the trio inside.  Castiel stared at Dean with wide eyes, before going back to watching the entrancing glow of the light. The blood circle continued to grow around it, and the beam of white grew wider.  Dean spread his arms, crowding Sam and Castiel behind him as they pressed against the wall.

“Dean,” said Sam again, the panic more evident in his voice.  “He’s coming.”

No one spoke, as all three knew who Sam meant.  All they could do was watch as a blaze of pure white engulfed the room, blocking out their vision.


	3. Chapter 3

Castiel awoke to the steady beeping of a machine and the smell of pie.  He blearily opened his eyes, rubbing them with his fists.  His vision cleared slightly, allowing him to take in the white walls, closed windows, and various machines.  Castiel also noticed the empty pair of chairs in the room and the half-eaten cherry pie that had woken him up. 

Dean had been here, then.  It was unlike the angel to leave food half-eaten, and thought instantly caused Castiel to worry.  He snapped out of his thoughts to find a nurse standing in the doorway. 

“So you’re awake, then,” she said, entering the room.

Castiel ignored her futile attempt to fix her hair and instead voiced his main concerns.  “Was there someone with me?”

“Sorry, hon, what was that?” asked the nurse.  She leaned over the hospital bed, causing Castiel to get a face-full of boobs.  He tried to focus gaze anywhere other than straight ahead, avoiding the nurse’s very prominent cleavage.

“Did I have any visitors?  One would be snarky and flirtatious, and the other would be excessively tall.”

“You just missed them.  Green-eyes tried to flirt with me,” said the nurse.  She leaned over to Castiel’s ear to whisper, “But I think you’re a better catch.”

Castiel scooted over on his hospital bed, trying to put as much space between him and the nurse as possible.  He didn’t especially appreciate being hit on by the hospital staff, especially considering she wasn’t even his type.  He wasn’t even sure he had a type, to be honest. 

The last girl he’d had the vaguest interest in, Meg, had only ever wanted to make out with him – and she kept calling him Clarence.  Castiel wasn’t even sure if she really knew his name.  But, she knew her way around the supernatural world, and she was a good friend to have… if friend was a right word.  Either way, Castiel had ended the relationship when he realized that he no longer had any interest in her.  Or any other girl.  Or any boy, if everyone was being honest here.

Luckily, Castiel was saved from the ambush by a head poking in the doorway and saying, “Oh good, you’re up!” 

Sam’s towering frame blocked most of the entrance.  His face was flooded with relief and happiness.  “We weren’t sure you were going to make it,” said Sam honestly when the nurse had left.  “When…” Sam cleared his throat.  “When Lucifer got out, we thought that he killed you, because you weren’t there when we woke up.  But then Dean said he could sense you about a hundred miles north of the convent, and we brought you here as fast as possible.”

Castiel rubbed his eyes.  “Lucifer is free?”  Sam nodded.  “Why hasn’t the world ended, then?”

“The world isn’t just going to spontaneously combust, Cas,” said Sam, holding back a laugh.  “He needs to find a vessel first.”

“Oh.”

“Besides, I don’t think the angels are planning on going down without a fight.”

Castiel sunk down into the bed.  “That’s not comforting, Sam.”

“Hey,” said Sam, walking over to the bed to pull the blanket from over Castiel’s head.  “Even if the angels do something stupid, I promise you that we won’t go down without a fight.”

“That’s not comforting either.”

“Would you rather Dean try and comfort you?” Sam asked, shooting Castiel a knowing glance.

Castiel gave a tiny smile.  “He’s not comforting at all.”

“Exactly.”

“Speaking of,” said Castiel, sitting up again.  “Where is Dean?”  Castiel’s gaze darted around the room hopefully, catching on the half-eaten slice of pie.

“He went out a few minutes before you woke up.”  Sam checked his watch.  “He should have been back by now, actually.”

“I’m sure he’s fine,” said Castiel.  “He probably just stopped for a drink.”

“Yeah, probably.”

* * *

 

He was going to kill that bitch.

First she had the nerve to kill his brothers, then she had the nerve to try and kill Castiel, and now she was trying to jump-start the apocalypse for her own benefits?  To Dean, it sounded like Bela was just _asking_ to get stabbed in the face.

As Dean drove down I-90, he fiddled with the radio station, trying to distract himself from the guilty thoughts that plagued his mind.  He shouldn’t have left Castiel alone in the hospital, especially when the man was in a coma – no thanks to, surprise, Bela – from Lucifer’s cage opening.   Originally, Dean had intended to quickly flutter out and pay Bela a visit, but when he found out that Bela had done a half-assed job of angel-proofing her home (if she’d done a complete job, she wouldn’t have been able to live there herself), Dean had realized that his wings wouldn’t work and he would have to drive.  So, he had taken the Impala, hoping Castiel wouldn’t mind too much, and tore out of the hospital parking lot.

Dean turned onto a side street, feeling the power of the sigils growing stronger.  His wings felt constricted, almost as if someone had dropped a net onto them and was now pulling with a vengeance.  He stepped on the gas pedal, sending the car’s engine rumbling as it accelerated.   The further down the street Dean drove, the more extravagant and excessive the house sizes grew.  Another sigh passed Dean’s lips, and he shook his head at Bela’s human-esque lifestyle – the fancy clothes, the enormous houses, the expensive cars.

When he finally came to a stop outside of the house at the end of the lane, Dean turned off the car, but left the keys in the ignition in case Bela got any bad ideas.  He strode up to the tall iron gates that broke the winding brick wall which surrounded the property.  There was no doorbell, no camera, and he was fairly certain the gate was locked.  Dean crossed his arms.

“Really?” he grumbled, striding up to the iron bars and gripping them tightly, preparing to climb.  To his luck, with the pressure of Dean’s weight, the gates swung open, and Dean shrugged, climbing off the gates to make his way down the cobblestone driveway.

Dean stretched his wings as he walked, extending and flexing the muscles.  They felt restricted and uncomfortable, almost as if someone had poured tar over them, weighing them down and rendering them useless. He channeled his annoyance at the sigils into scanning the perfectly manicured lawns for any potential danger.  Aside from a particularly threatening statue of a bulldog, nothing stood out to Dean, and he soon found himself standing awkwardly in front of the steps to Bela’s front doors.

Dean bit his lip and tilted his head towards the sky, taking in the various windows and porches along the second and third stories.  He caught sight of an open porch door on the third floor, and mentally debated the difficulty of climbing versus the stupidity of knocking.  Climbing would give him the element of surprise, so he latched onto the brick and started climbing.

Twenty minutes later, as Dean was scaling the wall with nothing but his bare hands, he regretted his decision.  One of his fingernails was cracked and bloody, his fingers and knuckles bore various scratches, and his arms were protesting from the effort of holding his full body weight.  Dean pulled himself over the railing to the porch with one last grunt, landing in a heap on the smooth tiles.  After taking a minute to catch his breath, he straightened his leather jacket and entered the house.

If the outside of the house was that of a Hollywood movie star’s, Dean didn’t know what to think of the inside.  The wooden floor was polished to a shine with not so much as a scratch on the finish, and the walls were adorned with famous paintings – all originals, and all stolen, Dean was willing to bet.  He had apparently climbed in through one of the guest bedrooms because the plush bedspread was neatly made, the pillows directly centered and leaning at the perfect angle.

Dean made a sound of disgust, ready to leave the room, when a glass bottle of Scotch caught his eye.  He poked his head out the door, and, satisfied no one was watching, he slipped the expensive bottle of liquor into his angelic coat pocket for later.

For now, he needed to find Bela.  He tip-toed through the house, peering around corners maybe a bit more dramatically than was entirely necessary.  (What?  It looked cool when James Bond did it!) When he ducked his head around the next wall and found a familiar blonde head of hair with her back to the door, Dean flattened himself back against the wall.  His heart was racing as he let his sword slip down the sleeve of his coat, preparing to fight.

“So, this is the bitch-cave,” said Dean, stepping out of the shadows. 

Bela spun around, he eyes wide.  “Dean,” she said flatly, trying her best to hide her fear.  Her rapid pulse-point and wide eyes gave it away, though.  “I take it you’re here to kill me,” said Bela.

“You guessed it, sister.”  Dean walked evenly towards Bela, twirling his sword in his fingers and trying to decide on a plan of attack.

“Then I’m sorry to tell you that you’re out of luck.”  Bela’s sword dropped into her hand and she lunged towards Dean.

Dean stepped back just in time to miss a slash to his stomach.  He returned the attack with a swing of his own, landing a tiny swipe on Bela’s ribcage.  She glanced down to it in shock, and for a moment they were both drawn to the blue-white light seeping out of the cut.  Bela snapped back to attention first, kneeing Dean in the stomach.

“You’re gonna pay for that,” he said, thrusting forward with his sword again.

The fight dragged on as Bela kept parrying Dean’s blows one by one.  Dean and Bela circled each other, moving around the room as one tried to gain the advantage over the other.  After four more attempts at nailing the other angel, Dean had resorted to defensive strategies. Bela had managed to push Dean into a corner, and he was lashing out desperately, trying to drive her away.  He took a step forward, but he found himself frozen.  He tried again.  No luck.

“Sorry, Dean,” she said.  Dean followed her gaze to the ceiling, for the first time noticing the angel trap made out of painter’s tape.  “Tacky, I know.  But I didn’t want to ruin the color scheme with some ugly black paint.  This way it’s removable.”

Dean glared at Bela. “Let me go, Bela.” 

“Oh, I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

“Let me go,” growled Dean. He straightened his form, letting his wings stretch as far out as they would go without brushing the edges of the angel trap.  He winced when his wingspan went too far, the trap stinging his feathers. 

“Why, so you can just kill me?” asked Bela.  “I don’t think so.” 

Bela retreated to her desk, her heels clicking in a staccato beat on the wooden floor.   She sat down eloquently in her ornately crafted desk chair, smoothing the lapels of her shirt.  For a handful of minutes, all was quiet, but then Bela stood up to retrieve something from the small table behind her desk.

When Bela had her back to Dean, he concentrated his grace and attempted to crack the ceiling or tear the tape.  Bela stopped shuffling through a stack of papers, and with her back still facing Dean, she said, “Dean, honey, that’s not going to work.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I built it,” said Bela, returning to her desk.  “So you can just stop trying now.  It’s pathetic and it makes you look desperate.”

“That’s because I am desperate,” said Dean, once again trying to break free of the trap.  He kicked against the drywall, attempting to crack a hole in the wall.  The plan backfired when the trap once again held him back.

“It’s not a good look on you,” remarked Bela idly.  “What could be so important to make you so frantic?”

“I have someone I need to see.”  Dean crossed his arms.  He raised an eyebrow, daring Bela to mock him. 

“Oh, dear little Castiel?” Bela asked. 

Dean didn’t give her the satisfaction of an answer.  He turned around, staring out the window at the fountain in the yard instead.

“I don’t think he really needs your help right now,” continued Bela.  “You have more important things to be worrying about.”

Dean looked back at her, rolling his eyes.  He sat down in the trap, crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall.  “Like what?”  He considered the small area of which he was confined to.  “Where I’m going to take a shit?”

“Cute and funny,” Bela said. “Too bad you’re trying to kill me.”

“Save it, Bela.”

Bela picked at one of her nails.  “Don’t you want to know what I’m talking about?  Aren’t you just a little bit curious?”

Dean huffed out a breath.  “Like what?” he asked, annoyance in his tone.

“Like little Sammy,” said Bela.  She picked up a fountain pen and began writing in long strokes.

Dean darted up, wincing when the trap threw him backwards. “What the hell did you do to him?” he shouted.

“Down boy.” 

“I’m not a dog,” growled Dean.

Bela was silent for a few minutes before she said, “It’s not what I’ve done, it’s what I’m going to do.” 

She stood up and strolled out of the room, leaving Dean yelling in her wake.  “Bela!  Get back in here!  Let me go, you bitch!  If you hurt Sammy, I swear to God, I’ll stab you in the face!”

Three hours later, Dean had ceased his angry threats and now sat sulking in the corner, with his arms wrapped around his knees, glaring petulantly at Bela whenever she entered the room.  _For being a manipulative bitch, she sure does spend a lot of time on paperwork,_ thought Dean.  He watched as another crisply-dressed angel appeared in the hallway.  Dean didn’t recognize the man, but he could see his halo, so Dean figured that it was a low-ranking angel that he had never ran into.

Bela signed a document before placing it in a manila folder and handing it to the angel.  “Make sure that gets to Ellen as soon as possible,” said Bela.

Dean leaned forward, perking up.  “Ellen, as in Ellen Harvelle?” he asked, unfolding his arms.  “She’s in on this?”

“No, she turned me down,” said Bela.

“I thought you were killing angels, not doing business with them.”

Bela smirked, waiting until the other angel had left the room to say, “Unlike you and your brother, some of us angels actually do try and keep order to Heaven.  There’s paperwork to be signed and things to be done.”

Bela pulled out a bottle of wine from her desk and poured herself a glass.  She held it up to Dean in an offering.

“I don’t want your damn wine,” said Dean.

Bela gave a small shrug pressed the glass to her lips, taking a tiny sip of the dark red liquid. She continued talking.  “I just need to keep up the appearance of a good little worker bee.  If I leave too many corpses, it’ll be suspicious.  We can’t have anyone investigating me, now can we?”

Dean scrunched his face up as he thought.  He tilted his head left, then right, moving along to his internal monologue before he said, “If I wasn’t so resentful right now, I’d almost be impressed.”

Bela raised an eyebrow.  “You know, Dean, I wasn’t expecting you to be so civil.”  She paused.  “Minus the death threats and calling me a bitch, of course.”

“Yeah, whatever, save it,” said Dean, dismissing her. 

Bela continued drinking her wine, leaving Dean time to process the thoughts swimming through his head at an alarming pace.  He eventually came to the conclusion that if he was trapped, he might as well make use of the time.

Dean cleared his throat and said, “If we’re being civil-” He made a pair of air quotes around _civil_. “- then answer me this: what do you want Sammy for?”

“I’m sure you know that Lucifer needs a vessel,” Bela said offhandedly.  At first, Dean was confused, but then it hit him.

“No,” said Dean slowly.  “No, you can’t do that.  Sam’s already in his vessel, he’s not just going to leave.”

“I guess I’ll have to get rid of him, won’t I?”

Dean instinctively reached for the sword that was no longer up his sleeve, but instead placed neatly on Bela’s table.  He groaned, cursing himself silently for being so reckless earlier.  He opted instead for menacing words.

“You wouldn’t,” said Dean threateningly.

“You’re underestimating me again, Dean.”

“I’ll kill you before you even get the chance!”

Bela gave a cold laugh.  “That’d be hard, considering you’re a little preoccupied right now, don’t you think?” 

She considered Dean’s sword, which was currently being used as a paperweight. Dean followed her eyes, and spat out, “Fuck you.”

“No thank you,” said Bela, not missing a beat.  “Besides, do you really think killing me would do anything?  There’s more where I come from, Dean.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You think I would just do this alone?” asked Bela.  “Ever since Castiel started this mess, Heaven’s been planning the apocalypse.  But maybe you were just a bit too busy with your new little human friend to notice.”

Dean rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.  He said, “Heaven’s just going to let Lucifer take over the world, then?  Is that it?”

“Not quite.  Think of it more like a… family brawl.”

Dean narrowed his eyes.  “Michael,” said Dean.  He thought back to when he was just a fledgling, remembering the stories of Michael and Lucifer, the ever-arguing brothers. “It’s going to be a fight, isn’t it?”

“I was wondering when you’d get it.”

“You do know that they’ll destroy the entire fucking planet, right?”

Bela shrugged.  “It’s a small price to pay for Heaven’s victory.”   She was interrupted as the ring of a telephone cut through the thick atmosphere of the room. 

“Why would you do that?”

“There’s money to be made,” said Bela.  She answered her phone with a brisk, “Bela Talbot,” before leaving the room.

“Of course there is,” Dean groaned, rolling his eyes at her shallowness.

* * *

 

Day turned into night at the hospital and Castiel could be found playing a game of cards with Sam.  After Sam won for the umpteenth time (despite Castiel’s protests that Sam was using angel powers, even though he wasn’t), Sam gave up on cards and chose to stare out the window wistfully instead.

“He’s still not back,” said Sam.  Castiel drew his attention from shuffling the cards to study Sam.  His eyebrows were furrowed and his lips were pursed.  Sam ran a hand through his hair and sighed.  “I’m going to go look for him.”

“Sam, wait-” Castiel began, but the angel had already flown out of the room.  Castiel gave an exasperated sigh.  “I liked it better when he was human,” grumbled Castiel to himself.

Meanwhile, Sam had felt Dean’s grace somewhere in Massachusetts.  He followed it to… the middle of the street.  Sam landed on the hard blacktop with a thud, his limbs tangled in a heap.  Brushing himself off, Sam stood up and glanced around.  He could feel the mojo radiating off a towering mansion at the end of the block, and he all but ran to the end of the street.

When Sam arrived, he found the gates open, and cautiously wandered in.  He thought about going to ring the doorbell, but when he saw the wide-open window on the top story despite the dreary day, he decided to take the long way up.  It had probably been left open by Dean, and if Dean had chosen to scale a wall rather than take the easy way out by ringing a doorbell, there was probably a reason.

Sam climbed the window, and as he walked out of the bedroom and down the hallway, he heard Dean hiss, “Sam!”

He saw Dean sitting in a corner in the room to his right, a room that appeared to be an otherwise unoccupied office.  Sam rushed into the room.  “It’s okay, I’m here,” said Sam, striding towards his brother.

“No! Stop!”  Sam froze, following Dean’s eyes to the ceiling.  “It’s Bela. She’s trying to trap you.”

“Why?” asked Sam, dumbfounded.

“Not now – don’t just stand there, get out of here!”  Dean said. 

Sam jumped into action, searching for something to break the trap with.  “Not without you,” he said. He grabbed Bela’s desk chair and a ruler, and dragged them over to the corner. “Tell me what’s going on while I work.”

“Your vessel is also Lucifer’s vessel,” began Dean.  Sam used the ruler to peel back a piece of tape from the trap.  Dean stood up, flexing his wings carefully and leaving the trap before it could be closed again. “She’s planning to kill you to free up your vessel.”

“What?” Sam nearly yelled.  “Why?”

“Not now, Sammy, we need to go.”  Dean grabbed Sam’s sleeve and dragged him towards the door, but he wasn’t quick enough.

“Oh, really?” came Bela’s shrill voice.  “Leaving so soon?”  Bela stepped into the room, angel sword in each hand.  Dean cursed under his breath – he hadn’t noticed that she’d swiped it off her desk on her way out.

“Unfortunately, yes.  Thank you for the hospitality,” said Dean sarcastically.  “We’re leaving,” he announced. 

Bela leaned against the doorway, admiring Dean’s silver sword.  “Not without your sword, I hope.  They can be quite expensive to replace in today’s market… I would know.”

Sam stepped out from behind Dean and said, “Bela.”

“Sam,” Bela said.  “Always a pleasure.”

“I wish I could say the same,” replied Sam.  “Now, let us go, or we’ll kill you.”

“If I had a dollar for each time I heard that, I’d be rich,” she said. “But I really don’t need your money, obviously.”  Bela gestured to the house with a wave of her hand. 

“Shut it, Bela,” said Dean.  He went ignored, the conflict turning to a two-person argument between Sam and Bela.

“Take your best shot, Sam. I dare you.”

 A beam of light flashed across the silver of the sword which had slipped into Sam’s hand.

“Sam,” warned Dean, but it was too late.

Sam swung out at Bela, catching her expensive overcoat and tearing it along the seam. “You’ll pay for that,” she said angrily. Bela advanced towards Sam, both of her swords raised and ready.  

Sam narrowed his eyes at Bela.  She glanced up and down his body, waiting for him to make a move.  When he didn’t, Bela struck first, her right hand swinging across to lash out at Sam’s stomach.   Sam parried the blow with his own sword, only to get a shallow cut to his right arm as Bela swung with her left.  The two fought back and forth – Bela doing most of the attacking, Sam defending anything she dished out – while Dean frantically searched the room for a weapon.  Seeing no other options, Dean waited until Bela had her back turned on him before grabbing a hold of her wrist on her next swing.

Bela spun around and glared at the point where Dean’s fingers were closed tightly around the frail part of her wrist.  “Let go of me!” she demanded. 

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, sweetheart,” said Dean.

Bela gave a cruel laugh.  “Forgetting something?” she asked.  With the hand that Dean hadn’t grabbed, she pressed a sword to Dean’s throat.  “That wasn’t very smart of you, Dean.” 

Dean raised his chin defiantly.  He hadn’t intended to actually get a fair shot at Bela – he had just wanted to get her off of Sammy’s tail.

He gulped and stepped back when Bela stepped forward, avoiding the sharp point of silver pressing against the soft skin of his throat.  “Now I’ll just kill you first,” she said.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said Sam, having caught his breath and appeared behind Bela.  He lined up the long end of his sword with the front of her neck, and Bela froze.  “Put down the swords.”

Sam relented the pressure slightly as Bela bent over to place the two swords on the ground.  After the swords clattered to the ground, she kicked Sam in the shin, causing Dean to shout, “Sammy!” and giving her the split-second opportunity to vanish.

“Damn it,” cursed Dean.  “She could be anywhere.”  Dean picked up the two abandoned swords, stashing his back in his coat pocket and holding Bela’s in his hand.  “We better go before she sends someone else.”

Sam followed Dean through the many corridors of Bela’ mansion.  Various angel traps set throughout the house caused the brothers to make several detours throughout the course of their escape.  They finally arrived at a long open hallway, with white railing to signal the two winding staircases that marked the house’s foyer.  After checking that the front door was unguarded, Dean dashed down one staircase while Sam ran down the other.  Dean was reaching for the handle of the handcrafted oak door when he heard a voice speak up.

“Going somewhere?”

Without turning around, Dean knew who the voice belonged to.  “You too?” he asked.

“You’re going to get tired of saying that real quickly,” said the woman.  “Because there’s a lot more where I came from.”

Sam turned around to see a female angel dressed in a leather jacket and black t-shirt standing in the middle of the hallway.  Her dark brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail and she had a thigh-holster attached to her leg.  She wore a smug smirk, similar to Bela’s, but definitely more menacing.

“Who are you?” asked Sam.

“Gwen Campbell.  I’m in charge of your old garrison.  But, if you had been to Heaven recently, you would know that.”

“Why do I keep hearing that?” grumbled Sam, glaring pointedly at Dean.  Dean just raised his eyebrows and shrugged.

Gwen was armed with an angel sword, (really, Dean wouldn’t have expected anything else), so it wasn’t surprising to either brother that the next words out of her mouth were, “Are we just going to stand here making chit-chat all day, or are we going to get this show on the road?”

Dean grunted.  “Fine,” he said, not giving her a chance to register the word before he advanced on her.

Dean clashed swords with Gwen, but the battle was brief, with Dean taking the offensive rout at all times.  He thrust his sword at her three or four times before he was able to trick her into a vulnerable position.  Gwen froze when she felt the tip of Dean’s sword on her chest.

When Dean poised his sword directly over her heart, he asked, “How many more angels are there?”

Gwen laughed. 

“Something funny?” asked Dean.

“You’ll never get them all. There’s an army. There’s thousands.”

“That’s impossible,” interjected Sam.  “That would mean most of Heaven is in on this.”

“Exactly,” said Gwen, spitting some blood on the tile floor.  “It’s a Civil War up there,” she said, tilting her head towards Sam, “And Sammy here is smack in the middle of it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” demanded Dean.  He pressed his sword tighter into her flesh, drawing blood from her vessel and causing Gwen’s grace to leak from the wound.

“We knew this would happen – either Michael and Lucifer bring the apocalypse, or the seals were to be stopped,” said Gwen.  “Your dear friend Castiel just helped to bring along the right course of action.”

“It’s not his fault,” Dean said weakly.

“Oh, but he started this, didn’t he?” Gwen continued.  “Didn’t it ever seem a bit strange to you that by the time our garrison arrived in Hell, Castiel was already broken?”

“No,” said Dean.  “He has nothing to do with this.”

“Think what you want Dean, but just remember, he’s going to be the death of you.”

Sam watched the angels argue from a few feet back, not wanting to get within striking range of Gwen.  He cleared his throat, drawing both Dean’s and Gwen’s attention.  “Something doesn’t add up.  If the angels knew the apocalypse would happen, why is there a Civil War?”

Gwen smiled, showing her bloodied teeth.  She started to speak, but her words came out in pained gasps as she said, “Because some of the angels are too weak to think that Sam Winchester should die.”  She opened her mouth to speak again, but no words came out as Dean plunged his sword through her heart.

“That’s my brother you’re talking about,” growled Dean, twisting the sword.  “I’ll kill each and every one of you sons of bitches.  I’ll even kill Lucifer if I have to.”

“I’d like to see you try,” said Gwen with her last breath.  Her body fell limply from Dean’s hands as ringing filled the room.  Gwen’s grace blasted through the house, breaking windows and shattering chandeliers.

Dean scowled down at her body, staring at the pair of wings that were now charred onto the otherwise perfect tile.  Bela would have a fun time trying to clean that off.  He tore his eyes away from the corpse. “We’re leaving,” said Dean, starting to drag Sam through the front door.

Sam planted his feet firmly, refusing to leave the foyer.  “I’m not leaving until you tell me what this is all about.”

“I’m not telling you until we leave,” argued Dean.  He nervously inspected the room, listening intently for any flutter of wings to signal the arrival of another angel.  “What part about _angels wanting to kill you_ don’t you get?”

“Yeah, but why do they want to kill me?  I have nothing to do with the apocalypse!”

“Because you’re Lucifer’s vessel, that’s why!  So can we go now?”  Dean tugged on Sam’s sleeve, who reluctantly followed his older brother through the door.

They were walking down the street, waiting to get out of reach from the angel sigils before they could fly the rest of the way.  Sam bit his lip and said quietly, “We still need to visit Cas.”

Dean huffed a breath, watching it cloud the cold air. “Screw Cas,” said Dean. 

Sam looked taken aback.  He furrowed his brow and scowled at Dean.

“What?”

“Dean, he’s your friend.”

“Not anymore.  He started this whole damn thing.”

“So?  You already knew that!”

“Yeah, well, now there’s angels gunning to kill you.  That kind of changes things, Sam!” Dean shouted. 

“That’s not fair!” argued Sam, pausing in the middle of the street. “You can’t just-”  Sam blinked.  He hadn’t noticed that they had left the reach of the angel sigils, but apparently Dean had.  Sam angrily fluttered to the hospital, intending to explain to Castiel what had happened.

“He just left.”

Sam spun around, finding Dean leaning against the wall on the other side of the hallway.

“He was supposed to be here for a few more days,” said Sam.  Slowly, he asked, “What did you do, Dean?”

“Told him to shove it.”

“Dean!”

“I don’t want him around, Sam.  The dude is bad news.”

“He’s our friend!”

“Not anymore, he’s not,” said Dean.  Sam clenched his jaw, but Dean ignored it.  “We’re leaving.  Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Story on hold until further notice! Sorry for the inconvenience, but I had to drop this story due to school, and I've since forgotten a lot of the plot bunnies that were floating around, so until I re-outline and find the time to continue, this won't be updated!


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